I brought the cantaloupe to the table. Mrs. Fairmont ate the fruit with maddeningly slow deliberation.
'This is perfect,' she said. 'I love it when it's firm and sweet.'
'Yes ma'am,' I answered as I tried to will her to eat faster. 'My family grows very good cantaloupes and watermelons.'
She finished the meal with a final large yawn. 'Excuse me,' she said. 'That is so rude, but I can't help it.'
She pushed her chair away from the table.
'Have a good evening,' she said. 'I wish Flip could carry me upstairs to bed. I'll sleep for a while and probably be wide awake in the middle of the night. That's how it is with my condition.'
'Yes ma'am,' I answered. 'Do you think you could put off going to bed for a few minutes so we can locate the newspaper clippings you saved about Lisa Prescott?'
'I forgot,' she said with another yawn. 'It all happened so long ago, it's hard to imagine it being terribly urgent.'
'It is,' I said bluntly. 'I need to have the information by the morning.'
'Very well. But you'd better hold my arm while we go downstairs. I don't want to break my neck.'
It was a horrible image-Mrs. Fairmont lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs. I'd been hired to protect the elderly woman, not to place her in harm's way.
'Maybe we should wait until you wake up in the night,' I said. 'I can adapt to your schedule.'
'No, no. That cantaloupe was sweet enough to give me a few more minutes of energy.'
'Are you sure?'
She didn't answer but started walking toward the basement. Flip and I followed. I firmly held her arm, and we made it to the bottom of the stairs without mishap. I turned on the bare lightbulbs that illuminated the open area opposite my apartment. Large cardboard boxes were stacked on top of one another. Furniture not in use was covered by white bedsheets. Shelves affixed to two of the walls contained scores of smaller boxes. I wouldn't have known where to begin. Mrs. Fairmont stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared at a lifetime of accumulation.
'I think I keep the older records over here,' she said, moving down a row of the large boxes.
I followed. Most of the boxes were labeled. We passed dishes, extra china, and souvenirs from travel. Mrs. Fairmont stopped and pointed.
'Could you lift that one out?' she asked.
'Yes ma'am.' I sprang into action.
It was marked 'Of Interest.' I placed the lightweight box at Mrs. Fairmont's feet and removed the top. It was filled with yellowed newspapers.
'This is it!' I exclaimed.
'Maybe,' she said.
I reached in and grabbed a newspaper that promptly crumbled in my hands. 'Oops,' I said.
'Don't worry. I'd never have seen it again if you hadn't asked me about Ellen's daughter.'
I carefully retrieved what was left and held it up to the light. It was a Savannah paper almost seventy years old. Mrs. Fairmont leaned close to my shoulder.
'That's from my school days,' she said. 'My mother probably saved it because it contained news about me and my classmates.'
I stared at the other papers in the box. 'Would everything in this box be that old?'
'At least,' she said. 'Put it back. I don't want to read it.'
I returned the box to its place. Mrs. Fairmont pointed to another box. This one was labeled 'Newsworthy Items.' I put it on the floor and removed the top. Inside were stacks of manila folders grown discolored with age.
'That's Christine's handwriting,' Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the tab on the top folder. 'These will be more recent.'
One by one I took the folders from the box. They contained everything from Christmas punch recipes to information about horses.
'Christine loved to ride jumpers when she was younger. She wasn't afraid of anything.'
I remembered my brief ride in the car with Mrs. Bartlett. I thought she might try to jump the curb in her Mercedes. Toward the bottom of the box, I saw a folder with the name 'Lisa' on it and opened it. My eyes fell on the front page of the Savannah paper and a grainy picture of a little girl. I showed it to Mrs. Fairmont. She stared at it for a second.
'It's Lisa,' she said in a sad voice. 'That picture brings back a lot of memories. Lisa loved dressing up and sitting in a parlor chair with her feet dangling in the air. Ellen brought her over several times for afternoon tea.'
While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I quickly scanned the article. On a Tuesday afternoon, the ten-year-old girl vanished following a piano lesson. The piano teacher, a woman named Miss Broadmore, was questioned by police and reported that Lisa left the teacher's house at precisely 4:30 p.m. for the five-minute walk home along familiar streets. Lisa never made it. Within an hour the police were notified. Requests for assistance were broadcast on the local radio stations. Anyone seeing her was urged to come forward.
'It was a sad time,' Mrs. Fairmont continued. 'The whole city was touched by the Prescotts' loss. I think Christine saved all the articles she could. Most of my news came directly from Ellen.'
There were other articles in the folder. All of them featured the same photograph. Even in a black-and-white image, Lisa fit Moses Jones' description.
'Do you remember anything else Ellen told you?'
Mrs. Fairmont shook her head. 'There are lots of things jumbled up in my head. Trying to sort them out would be an unhappy way to end the day.'
'Yes ma'am. I understand. Thanks for helping me.'
I assisted Mrs. Fairmont up the stairs to the main floor and then to her bedroom. I examined the picture of Ellen Prescott on the nightstand more closely. Lisa looked a lot like her mother.
'How old were you and Ellen in that picture?' I asked.
'About seven or eight. Young enough that a trip to the park with a friend was a special treat.'
I turned to go downstairs. I was anxious to read the rest of the newspaper articles.
'Tami?' Mrs. Fairmont asked.
'Yes ma'am.'
'I like having you in the house. It makes me feel safe.'
'Thank you.'
I took the box into my apartment and carefully removed the newspapers. They weren't as brittle as the very old ones. Beginning with the first account of Lisa's disappearance, I read the unfolding story more slowly.
There wasn't much to tell.
One day Lisa was a bright, vivacious girl. The next she vanished without a trace. The second article was the longest and featured a map with Lisa's most likely route from Miss Broadmore's house to the Prescott home on East McDonough Street. Close to the Prescott home was the Colonial Park Cemetery.
Several follow-up articles included quotes from people claiming to have seen Lisa during her walk home. Unfortunately, the claims were inconsistent and would have required Lisa to walk several blocks out of her way instead of following the most direct route. The police chief offered cryptic comments without substance to the newspaper reporters. One fact seemed clear. No one saw the little girl after she neared the cemetery. The police focused their investigation on that area and scoured it for physical evidence. Not a piece of sheet music or bit of clothing was discovered. No ransom note was delivered. The possibility of a kidnapping faded.
After a week of daily articles, there was a two-day gap followed by a brief update without any new information. A week went by before another article repeated familiar facts with the conclusion that the police suspected 'foul play' but had no suspects. Two months later there was a notice on page two of 'Memorial Service for Girl Presumed Dead.' It was a harsh headline. More than eight hundred people attended the service at a local church. I returned the newspapers to the box. I looked over my notes and decided I hadn't uncovered anything that warranted a nighttime walk to the office.
And, even though Lisa Prescott's unexplained disappearance occurred decades earlier, I didn't want to go out after dark.
